


In Sickness

by decrescendo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 06:16:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17238941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decrescendo/pseuds/decrescendo
Summary: Sherlock has a bad flu. John takes care of him.





	In Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago and then forgot about it. Hope you enjoy!

It was nearly eleven o’clock when John finally stood up and went to knock on Sherlock’s door. The detective, who rarely slept at all, much less into late morning, had still not gotten up, and John was beginning to grow worried.

He rapped his knuckles lightly on the door and called out, “Sherlock?” There was no answer and John hesitated; he hated to wake Sherlock from his rare sleep and he knew that he’d be irritated if John was disturbing him when there was nothing actually the matter. Still, something felt off to him. “Sherlock?” he called again. “You alright?”

There was a grunt from inside, but not one of irritated affirmation.

Seriously worried now, John tested the doorknob and was relieved to find it unlocked. He opened it a crack, intending just to verify that Sherlock was not actively suffocating on the results of his own experiment and then leave again.

What he saw was more alarming: the duvet had been pushed to the side and sheet was twisted and tangled around Sherlock’s legs and torso. Sherlock himself lay on his side, curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly over his stomach. He was pale but his cheeks were dully flushed, and John could see the sweat shining on his forehead even from the doorway.

“What – Sherlock?” John was at his side instantly. He bent over and rested the back of his hand on his forehead.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked open. “John?” he whispered, voice weak.

“Christ, Sherlock, you’re burning up…” He removed his hand and dropped so that he was eye-level with Sherlock, crouching beside the bed. “Sherlock,” he said, urgently but as gently as he could manage. “Can you hear me?”

Sherlock moaned and curled himself tighter.

“Okay, Sherlock, I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay?” Sherlock nodded. “Do you feel cold?”

He shook his head.

“Hot?”

A nod.

“Okay. Does your head hurt?” Yes. “Throat?” No. “Stomach?” Yes. “Okay. Stay awake for me, okay? I’m going to fetch you a thermometer and some water.”

When john returned, Sherlock seemed slightly more alert. His eyes were closed when John came in but he opened them as he approached, shifting into a slightly less curled position.

John sat lightly on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to take your temp, okay? Can you open your mouth for me?” Sherlock complied and John was alarmed by how little of a fight he was putting up. In his experience, a sick Sherlock had always been a belligerent one. The thermometer beeped and John pulled it out. “39.4. That’s too high, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned suddenly and clutched at his stomach. He was swallowing rapidly. “John –” he said weakly. “John, I don’t –”

John didn’t need an explanation. “Can you make it to the bathroom if I help you?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed.

“Okay. Come on, then.” He put his hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and gently eased him upwards. When he was nearly sitting, John peeled away the damp sheet and eased Sherlock’s legs off the bed. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to stand up now, yeah?”

Sherlock was leaning heaving against John even sitting and John was reluctant to move him, but he knew they needed to get into the bathroom quickly. So with one strong arm wrapped around Sherlock’s back and the other pressed to Sherlock’s chest, he very carefully maneuvered them into a standing position. Sherlock swayed and let out an involuntary moan and John rubbed his chest, murmuring, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just a few steps.” He kept up the meaningless comfort all the way into the bathroom. “Almost there. It’s okay. We’re almost there, you’re doing great.” He nudged the light on with his free shoulder and carefully lowered Sherlock onto the linoleum in front of the toilet. Sherlock leaned low over the bowl, clutching the cold porcelain for dear life. John readjusted himself so that he was kneeling next to Sherlock, his hand resting between the shoulder blades, rubbing soothingly up and down. “Okay, you can let it out now.”

For a moment it seemed as if there had been a false alarm; Sherlock was still over the toilet, breathing raggedly but deeply. Then, after about ten seconds, the first convulsion came. Nothing came of it; Sherlock’s back arched as he heaved, but nothing came up.

“Shh,” said John, continuing to rub his back. “You’re all right.”

Sherlock’s breath came in harsh gasps as he tried to draw air, but before he could get much of a breath in, the real thing came, and he bent so low over the toilet that he all but fell in. His whole body convulsed as he heaved violently. John put a hand over Sherlock’s, still rubbing his back, and kept up his meaningless soothing words.

Eventually the space between heaves grew longer, and Sherlock was breathing again, the breath coming almost in sobs between violent retches. Finally, after about a minute, he heaved and nothing came up, then again, and then it was done. His whole body was trembling, and he kept his head bowed; to hide the tears running down his face, John suspected.

John continued to rub his back gently and asked very quietly, “You done?” Sherlock nodded into the toilet. “Okay,” said John soothingly. “Okay. Head up a little bit, I’m going to flush.” Sherlock complied and John flushed the toilet. “I’ll be right back, okay?” He stood and fetched Sherlock’s glass from the nightstand and then ran a flannel under cool water and wrung it out.

He knelt again beside Sherlock, who was still clutching the toilet bowl and had not raised his head. “Do you still feel sick?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

“That’s good,” said John. “We’re going to get you cleaned up, okay, and then back to bed.” Sherlock made no response. He was still trembling. “Can you look up at me?” he asked gently. After a moment, Sherlock lifted himself to a position that more resembled sitting, but immediately swayed and redoubled his grip on the toilet.

“Dizzy,” he whispered.

“I know,” said John softly. “It’s all right. Here –” He put his arm around Sherlock and helped him to sit back against the wall. He kept a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he carefully brought the cool flannel to his face. He wiped very gently, first cleaning the mess from around his mouth and then moving to dab at the rest of Sherlock’s face, which was deathly pale but for his flushed cheeks, sweaty and tearstained. After that was done he stood to rinse the flannel, then dampened a fresh one and laid it over the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock looked ready to pass out.

“Do you think you can make it back to bed?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“All right,” said John, settling himself more comfortable beside him. “Do you want me to try and carry you a bit, or stay here?”

Sherlock swallowed visibly and John was worried he might need to be sick again, but he didn’t appear urgent at all. After another swallow, he managed, “Here.” Immediately he sucked in a deep breath, but it was too much too quickly, and it sent him into a coughing fit.

John reacted instinctively by resuming his rubbing of Sherlock’s back and whispering of meaningless platitudes. Sherlock hacked until he was gasping for air, tears standing out on his clammy skin.

He was fighting very hard now not to sob, John could tell, and shivering so violently that his teeth were chattering. And though John would never have dreamt that Sherlock would accept it under normal circumstances – would never even have dared to offer – now he did not hesitate to open his arms and murmur, “Come here.”

Sherlock hesitated only a moment before the illness won out over his already shattered pride, and folded himself into John’s embrace.

John shifted carefully so that Sherlock was between his legs with his face pressed into John’s good shoulder. He was still making an enormous effort to contain himself. John tightened his arms around him and rubbed his back. The moment he whispered, “Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” it was all over. Sherlock let out one broken sob, and then another, and then he was crying hard into John’s shirt.

Eventually the sobs ceased and Sherlock lay still against John, no longer trembling but shivering, clearly cold.

“Sherlock,” murmured John, “we need to get you changed and into bed. Do you think you can stand now?”

Sherlock nodded into his shoulder and struggled into a more upright position. Standing was the more difficult part, but once he managed that, he was able to make it back to bed leaning only slightly on John.

John carefully deposited Sherlock on the bed and ran a quick stroke over his hair before saying, “Okay, I’m going to get you a fresh change of clothes, alright?” Sherlock nodded and John went to the dresser. He pulled out a pair of pajama bottoms and the warmest shirt and socks he could find. He hesitated, knowing Sherlock would hated it but remembering how his entire body was damp with sweat, and grabbed a fresh pair of pants from the drawer as well. He returned to Sherlock holding the articles and dumped them on the bed.

“When you feel a bit better you’ll have to have a shower,” said John. “For now you’ll just have to stick with fresh clothes, though, okay?”

Sherlock nodded and struggled weakly to remove his shirt. John helped ease it over his head. In the few seconds his torso was exposed, he moaned aloud from the cold.

“Okay,” said John calmly, knowing this would be the part Sherlock dreaded. “Your pants now.” He helped Sherlock out of the damp pajama bottoms and then handed him the boxers. “Here. I’ll turn around and give you some privacy, yeah?” Sherlock nodded and John turned his back. It took much longer than it would have done ordinarily, but eventually Sherlock said roughly, “Okay,” and John turned back around to help him with the new pajama bottoms.

He dumped the old clothes unceremoniously onto the floor and then handed Sherlock the water. “Small sips,” he instructed. “Just to rinse your mouth. I’ll get you ice chips in a minute.”

Sherlock nodded and took a tiny sip of water before handing the glass back to John. He pressed a hand to his stomach and closed his eyes.

“You feeling sick again?” asked John. He would have to go find a bin; he didn’t think either he or Sherlock could manage another trip to the bathroom.

Sherlock shook his head, but was still pale and clammy and almost grey-tinged.

“Let’s get you lying down, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded and John helped maneuver him into a lying-down position and lifted the covers over him. The sheets needed to be changed, he realized, but he wans’t about to make Sherlock stand again.

“I’ll get you some ice and a bin,” said John, smoothing a hand over the covers. “Anything else you need?”

“No,” Sherlock whispered.

John nodded. “I’ll be right back, then.”

When he returned Sherlock had already fallen asleep. John knew he needed the rest, but he also needed to by hydrated, so he gently smoothed back Sherlock’s hair from his forehead and murmured his name.

Sherlock’s eyes opened and he let out a soft moan. “I know,” said John, “I’m sorry. I need you to have some ice for me. Here –” He propped up Sherlock’s head with a second pillow. “I’ll feed it to you, okay?”  
Sherlock allowed John to carefully spoon feed him the ice chips without complaint. After half the cup was gone and John was satisfied that Sherlock would be alright until later, he stopped. “I’m going to let you sleep now, okay?”

Sherlock nodded and let his eyes fall closed.

“I’m going to leave your door open,” said John. “I’ll just be in the sitting room. Shout if you need anything.” He helped Sherlock shift into a slightly more comfortable position, then smoothed back his hair again and left the room.

John spent two hours in the sitting room doing nothing productive. He was just beginning to think about lunch when he heard a moan from Sherlock’s room. He shut his laptop and listened carefully. It came again, more of a shout this time, and John could swear it sounded terrified.

_Shit,_ he thought _, the fever must be giving him nightmares._ Quickly he stood and went to Sherlock’s room.

All the sheets had been thrown off and Sherlock was flushed and sweaty. He was twitching slightly, and as John approached the bed he began to speak: “No, John…no, no, oh God no…John…please…” And then it became a scream: “John! John!” He had never heard so much agony in the detective’s voice.

“Sherlock,” he said urgently, shaking him. “Sherlock, wake up, it’s just a dream…Sherlock! I’m here, you’re safe, we’re both fine…Sherlock, it’s okay, I’m right here.”

Sherlock woke suddenly and completely, snapping upright with a startled yell.

“Sherlock,” said John, quietly and gently now that he was awake. “Shh, Sherlock, it was just a dream.”

Sherlock was a mess. Sitting up in the bed, his clothes and hair stuck to him with sweat, chest heaving, trembling with the lingering effects of the dream. He was breathing deeply through his nose and John could tell that for the second time today he was struggling not to cry. “John,” he whispered, his voice ragged, and it wasn’t a complete thought, but he couldn’t go on.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“John,” Sherlock managed again, and then broke down more completely than John had ever seen. He clamped down on one enormous sob, and then another, and then he turned and buried himself in John.

John was momentarily surprised, but recovered quickly. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock for the second time, he held him more tightly than was probably advisable for someone in his condition, but it didn’t matter. John had never seen him like this. Earlier, in the bathroom, Sherlock’s tears had been a normal and obvious response to physical stress; now, though, they seemed to come from a place of genuine terror and heartbreak. The sobs wracked him so hard that John imagined he could hear Sherlock’s bones cracking, and held him all the tighter for it. One hand was tangled in Sherlock’s hair and the other rubbing up and down his spine. He rested his cheek on top of Sherlock’s head and murmured soothingly. “Shh. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here, it was just a dream. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath and managed, “I-I-It wasn’t me,” before fresh sobs choked him off again and he pressed his face more deeply into John’s shoulder.

“Shh,” said John, running a hand through his hair. “I’m right here. We’re both okay.”

After what felt like ages, Sherlock’s sobs quieted into occasional hiccupping gasps. His body slacked and relaxed against John, who continued to hold him. When he decided that Sherlock was probably capable of speech again, he asked, as softly and gently as he could, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shook his head against him. “Okay,” John whispered. “Okay.” His heart was breaking to see Sherlock like this. “Is there anything I can do?”

For a long time Sherlock was silent, and John thought he would not answer. Finally, he said, so quietly that John almost could not understand him, “Just – don’t – don’t go.”

John tightened his hold around him. “Of course I won’t.”

There was medicine to fetch, and sheets to clean, and sooner or later Sherlock would need help with a shower. His temperature needed to come down and he needed to get some food and water into him. He probably would be sick again, and eventually his fever would break, and John was already anticipating many long days of recovery ahead of them. For now, though, he just kept holding his detective. Of course he wouldn’t go.

 

 


End file.
